Worthy
by![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
laurificus, PG 1,257 words
I knew you would come for me.
Thanks toangelgazing and musesfool for looking it over. All remaining mistakes are mine.
***
Worthy
Lestrade says, like a man who would really rather be chewing off his own tongue, "And the papers are--still upstairs, are they, sir?"
Watson braces himself, but Holmes merely nods his affirmation. It's enough for Watson to consider whether matters are not more serious with Holmes than he had imagined, until he sees that Lestrade is yet more embarrassed by Holmes's failure to belittle and berate him. He casts Holmes an irritated glance, but Holmes quirks a tiny smile at him, just a flicker in his bruised face. Watson does not return it, though he remains kneeling by Holmes, hardly caring for the discomfort of the hard floor and the strain on his leg.
"Right. Well," Lestrade says. He fishes in his pocket, and pulls out a small flask. Holmes brightens considerably as Watson receives it. "For medicinal purposes, naturally," Lestrade says. Then, blessedly, he finally departs, to lead his men in a search of the old house, and let Watson tend his patient.
"It's very admirable," Holmes says, when their footsteps have receded, "that he chooses to do his job now that it's no longer necessary."
From his tone, they might be discussing the morning paper over breakfast, swapping bits of toast and morning pleasantries. Watson resists the urge to shake him, only because his professional training insists it would not be wise, when Holmes is, once again, in the not-very-unusual position of very recently nearly being killed.
"One might think he discharged his duties more than adequately by saving your life," he says, his voice anything but professional. True that but half an hour ago, Watson was cursing all of Scotland yard for unfailingly allowing Holmes to be so many steps ahead of them, but Holmes unerringly dwarfs all other irritations, so that Watson routinely feels like a man swatting at a wasp, only to be confronted by a lion. "Even so, you're a bloody mess."
He has at the very least some very badly bruised ribs, and maybe a broken collarbone, and that's only the injuries Watson's turned up with his cursory examination. If cursory it could properly be called. Watson will admit he has taken every excuse to keep his hands on Holmes; if he had not his injuries, Watson would have had to invent them. Unusual it may not be for Holmes to be in danger, but Watson is generally permitted to be with him whilst he is. It is the most intolerable kind of helplessness to be left behind, a furious impotence he will never be reconciled to.
"Unspeakably foolish," he says, not for the first time, as he prods the bruise on Holmes's cheek. His words do not touch him--they never do--so his fingers are, perhaps, not as gentle as they should be. "To say nothing of reckless. Or insufferably arrogant." It's easier to be angry, to reprimand and scold, because he will not ask to be taken along, or beg not to be left behind.
"Quite so," Holmes says, maddeningly reasonable, relentlessly calm. He takes a sip from the brandy, and smiles at Watson, though without warmth this time. "A lesser man might be forgiven for thinking you jealous. Glory isn't won quite so easily by showing up after the fact, and all that, eh?"
And that, finally, is enough. Watson generally prides himself on not responding to Holmes, but his equanimity has already withstood all it can tonight. "Jealous," he says, his hands instantly withdrawn from Holmes's face. He has always imagined himself understood by Holmes--not just understood. Seen through, as a smashed bottle might be to anyone else, all broken pieces and helplessly spilling truth. That Holmes understood and did not care, that was somehow bearable. That he should simply have failed to see, though. "No," he says. "Any man might think me a fool."
He does not look at Holmes. He gathers himself to stand, ignoring the warning twinges his leg is already sending him. But Holmes is quicker. Of course Holmes is quicker. His hand grasps Watson's wrist, yet it's the way he says Watson's name, as though Holmes has poured everything he is into it, that anchors Watson.
"Watson," he says again, and this time he sounds almost amused. "You tremendous idiot." He shakes his head, perhaps a little rueful. "Or perhaps you would think I have it backwards."
When Watson opens his mouth to respond, Holmes kisses him silent. Kisses him breathless and very near thoughtless, too, a jolt of pleasure so un-looked for, it's akin to dropping into another universe. Watson might be forgiven for forgetting his own name in the face of it, but there is an entire brigade of Scotland yard but a room away, and Watson is not quite so ensorcelled by Holmes that the import of that is lost on him. He curls his hand around Holmes's uninjured shoulder, meaning, he swears, to put distance between them. The best he can manage is to hold him still, which is mildly less humiliating than his treacherous body drawing him closer.
"You can't simply--you mustn't--" Watson gets cut off, because Holmes clearly thinks he can, because Holmes clearly feels he must. It's terrifying and exhilarating and quite, quite remarkable, and so bloody typically Holmes, Watson thinks about breaking a few more of his bones. A prospect that would be infinitely more likely if Holmes would refrain from using is tongue to such extraordinary effect, and if Watson could stop seeking his mouth. If Watson had not just discovered how soft Holmes's hair is against Watson's fingers, if Watson had not spent a year pretending he did not want this, only for Holmes to hand it over without being asked.
Mercifully, their reputations do not solely depend on Watson's bravery, or on Holmes's decency; the injuries Holmes already has intervene. Holmes draws away, gasping, slumping against the chair in obvious pain. His eyes are alight, in spite of that, an unholy glow of triumph Watson is used to catching in the midst of chemical explosions or midnight brawls. It's a trifle unnerving; it catches in Watson's gut, a slow, shivery feeling he's very nearly forgotten.
"You'll have to forgive me, old boy." he has another swig of brandy, and Watson is a little horrified to see how flushed and devilish he looks. "Perhaps we could continue this at home?"
It's the question in his voice that undoes Watson, the doubt from a man who trades in certainty that sweeps away whatever anger still remained. "The absence of a battalion of police officers might make that advisable," Watson says, and it is to his lasting credit that his own voice does not hint at the bewildered joy now possessing him. He touches his fingers to the dried blood on Holmes's temple, gentle this time. "And I think bed would really be best for you."
Only when he has said it does the full meaning of it strike him. He is rewarded by a brief, lascivious smile from Holmes, but for the second time this evening, his reply is not what Watson anticipates.
"I knew you would come for me," Holmes says. His gaze is steady on Watson, the smile entirely gone from his face. "I found the realisation--a little unsettling. I am not accustomed to that sort of reliance."
Watson laughs, startlingly loud in the quiet, remembering the debts unpaid, the fights lost and the women disappointed. "I am not accustomed to being worthy of it," he says.
***
by
laurificus, PG 1,257 wordsI knew you would come for me.
Thanks to
angelgazing and musesfool for looking it over. All remaining mistakes are mine.***
Worthy
Lestrade says, like a man who would really rather be chewing off his own tongue, "And the papers are--still upstairs, are they, sir?"
Watson braces himself, but Holmes merely nods his affirmation. It's enough for Watson to consider whether matters are not more serious with Holmes than he had imagined, until he sees that Lestrade is yet more embarrassed by Holmes's failure to belittle and berate him. He casts Holmes an irritated glance, but Holmes quirks a tiny smile at him, just a flicker in his bruised face. Watson does not return it, though he remains kneeling by Holmes, hardly caring for the discomfort of the hard floor and the strain on his leg.
"Right. Well," Lestrade says. He fishes in his pocket, and pulls out a small flask. Holmes brightens considerably as Watson receives it. "For medicinal purposes, naturally," Lestrade says. Then, blessedly, he finally departs, to lead his men in a search of the old house, and let Watson tend his patient.
"It's very admirable," Holmes says, when their footsteps have receded, "that he chooses to do his job now that it's no longer necessary."
From his tone, they might be discussing the morning paper over breakfast, swapping bits of toast and morning pleasantries. Watson resists the urge to shake him, only because his professional training insists it would not be wise, when Holmes is, once again, in the not-very-unusual position of very recently nearly being killed.
"One might think he discharged his duties more than adequately by saving your life," he says, his voice anything but professional. True that but half an hour ago, Watson was cursing all of Scotland yard for unfailingly allowing Holmes to be so many steps ahead of them, but Holmes unerringly dwarfs all other irritations, so that Watson routinely feels like a man swatting at a wasp, only to be confronted by a lion. "Even so, you're a bloody mess."
He has at the very least some very badly bruised ribs, and maybe a broken collarbone, and that's only the injuries Watson's turned up with his cursory examination. If cursory it could properly be called. Watson will admit he has taken every excuse to keep his hands on Holmes; if he had not his injuries, Watson would have had to invent them. Unusual it may not be for Holmes to be in danger, but Watson is generally permitted to be with him whilst he is. It is the most intolerable kind of helplessness to be left behind, a furious impotence he will never be reconciled to.
"Unspeakably foolish," he says, not for the first time, as he prods the bruise on Holmes's cheek. His words do not touch him--they never do--so his fingers are, perhaps, not as gentle as they should be. "To say nothing of reckless. Or insufferably arrogant." It's easier to be angry, to reprimand and scold, because he will not ask to be taken along, or beg not to be left behind.
"Quite so," Holmes says, maddeningly reasonable, relentlessly calm. He takes a sip from the brandy, and smiles at Watson, though without warmth this time. "A lesser man might be forgiven for thinking you jealous. Glory isn't won quite so easily by showing up after the fact, and all that, eh?"
And that, finally, is enough. Watson generally prides himself on not responding to Holmes, but his equanimity has already withstood all it can tonight. "Jealous," he says, his hands instantly withdrawn from Holmes's face. He has always imagined himself understood by Holmes--not just understood. Seen through, as a smashed bottle might be to anyone else, all broken pieces and helplessly spilling truth. That Holmes understood and did not care, that was somehow bearable. That he should simply have failed to see, though. "No," he says. "Any man might think me a fool."
He does not look at Holmes. He gathers himself to stand, ignoring the warning twinges his leg is already sending him. But Holmes is quicker. Of course Holmes is quicker. His hand grasps Watson's wrist, yet it's the way he says Watson's name, as though Holmes has poured everything he is into it, that anchors Watson.
"Watson," he says again, and this time he sounds almost amused. "You tremendous idiot." He shakes his head, perhaps a little rueful. "Or perhaps you would think I have it backwards."
When Watson opens his mouth to respond, Holmes kisses him silent. Kisses him breathless and very near thoughtless, too, a jolt of pleasure so un-looked for, it's akin to dropping into another universe. Watson might be forgiven for forgetting his own name in the face of it, but there is an entire brigade of Scotland yard but a room away, and Watson is not quite so ensorcelled by Holmes that the import of that is lost on him. He curls his hand around Holmes's uninjured shoulder, meaning, he swears, to put distance between them. The best he can manage is to hold him still, which is mildly less humiliating than his treacherous body drawing him closer.
"You can't simply--you mustn't--" Watson gets cut off, because Holmes clearly thinks he can, because Holmes clearly feels he must. It's terrifying and exhilarating and quite, quite remarkable, and so bloody typically Holmes, Watson thinks about breaking a few more of his bones. A prospect that would be infinitely more likely if Holmes would refrain from using is tongue to such extraordinary effect, and if Watson could stop seeking his mouth. If Watson had not just discovered how soft Holmes's hair is against Watson's fingers, if Watson had not spent a year pretending he did not want this, only for Holmes to hand it over without being asked.
Mercifully, their reputations do not solely depend on Watson's bravery, or on Holmes's decency; the injuries Holmes already has intervene. Holmes draws away, gasping, slumping against the chair in obvious pain. His eyes are alight, in spite of that, an unholy glow of triumph Watson is used to catching in the midst of chemical explosions or midnight brawls. It's a trifle unnerving; it catches in Watson's gut, a slow, shivery feeling he's very nearly forgotten.
"You'll have to forgive me, old boy." he has another swig of brandy, and Watson is a little horrified to see how flushed and devilish he looks. "Perhaps we could continue this at home?"
It's the question in his voice that undoes Watson, the doubt from a man who trades in certainty that sweeps away whatever anger still remained. "The absence of a battalion of police officers might make that advisable," Watson says, and it is to his lasting credit that his own voice does not hint at the bewildered joy now possessing him. He touches his fingers to the dried blood on Holmes's temple, gentle this time. "And I think bed would really be best for you."
Only when he has said it does the full meaning of it strike him. He is rewarded by a brief, lascivious smile from Holmes, but for the second time this evening, his reply is not what Watson anticipates.
"I knew you would come for me," Holmes says. His gaze is steady on Watson, the smile entirely gone from his face. "I found the realisation--a little unsettling. I am not accustomed to that sort of reliance."
Watson laughs, startlingly loud in the quiet, remembering the debts unpaid, the fights lost and the women disappointed. "I am not accustomed to being worthy of it," he says.
***
amused